


its cold outside

by royalwisteria



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, plus cats and dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy's cat keeps on appearing on Clarke's back porch. She <i>hates</i> cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	its cold outside

Clarke wakes only because of how cold she is. The tip of her nose is cold to the touch, as is the rest of her face and the tips of her ears. She clambers out of bed, grabbing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of wooly socks to keep her feet warm. Heidi snuffs when she’s displaced, and lifts her head momentarily to stare after Clarke, and then moves in to capitalize on the warmth she left behind. Her room is cold, colder than it should be, and she pads downstairs to check the thermostat. She doesn’t remember turning it low, but it’s at 65 degrees. Not nearly warm enough for the middle of winter. She cranks it up to 70 because it’s the morning and she’s a little cranky and feels like splurging on heat today.

She’s about to head back upstairs when she hears the mewling. Ears pricking, Clarke follows the noise to the source and finds a cat sitting on her snow-covered back porch; it’s small and huddled near the door. It’s a grey cat, though Clarke can hardly tell through the thorough layer of snow it must have acquired trekking to that spot.

It’s pitiful looking, it really is, but Clarke’s conscious is battling her fear of cats. It’s a quick, ferocious battle, and the final blow is when the cat lets out a small sneeze. She can’t be that heartless, she thinks, grabbing a tea towel from the nearby kitchen, and opening the door. The cat continues mewling, though it quietens down when Clarke scoops it up with the towel. The door is shut the moment the cat is indoors and the small body is shivering in her arms. It mewls once more and Clarke hurries to the bathtub and gets hot water going, closing the door behind her.

Cats not liking water is well known, but this cat has already been soaked through with water, and after she has it warmed up and scrounges something for it to eat, she’ll take it to the local humane society or vet. The cat’s paws come out of the towel to rest gently on her shoulder, and she tenses. The cat doesn’t do anything beyond that, and she relaxes. Soon enough there’s enough hot water and she tries to be careful when putting the cat in, but it’s still rather like dumping the poor thing in.

At first, the cat doesn’t seem happy, but stays in the tub and soon stops shivering. The tail, sodden, water dripping profusely from it, sways back and forth in a way that Clarke doesn’t understand. Dogs are much more straightforward, she thinks, turning the water up and covering the cat in the water a little more, fingers delicately running along its body, checkin for injuries.

There are none, but she finds a collar with a tag attached. She twists it around so she can read it in the bathroom light— _Gwen_ , and underneath is _if found, call 218-505-4932_. After that is an address Clarke can’t clearly make out, but might be a few blocks from where she is.

The cat— Gwen seems to be done with the bath and is pawing at the lip of the tub. Heaving a sigh, Clarke, unplugs the bath, grabs a bath towel and picks the cat up in it. She does this hurriedly, cautious of claws, and soon the cat is done with her ministrations and moves to the bathroom door. Gwen then turns and starts meowing, no longer pitiful sounding, though the cat still looks pitiful with fur in mismatched patches of standing up and slicked down from both the towel-down and water.

“Not just yet,” she murmurs, bending down and grabbing the tag again, pulling her phone out as she does. Gwen resists, head pulling away, but Clarke gets a second glimpse of the number and quickly taps it into her phone.

It rings twice, thrice, and then a deep, male voice answers. “Blake.”

“Hi, Blake, whatever— do you have a cat named Gwen?”

There’s such a dead silence, no noise at all coming through, Clarke moves the phone away and back when she finds out the call hadn’t been dropped. Gwen meows loudly at her, standing in front of the door, head turned to pierce her with plaintive, yellow eyes.

“You found Gwen?” The guy’s voice breaks at the end. “Is she okay?”

“Uh, yeah, she was cold, but she seems fine now. Are _you_ okay?”

“She’s— she’s been missing for a bit,” he says, and she hears him rustling for something.

“Listen to her meow, she’s healthy alright,” she mutters, moving the phone away and crouching to put it near the cat. On cue, Gwen meows loudly.

When she stands and backs away slightly, Gwen moves to follow her, starting a back and forth between her and the door. “She sounds good,” the guy says, a little choked, “can I get your address to pick her up?”

Duly, she gives it to him. “2483 Robin Avenue.”

“I’ll be there in a couple minutes,” he says and hangs up.

Clarke pockets her phone and stares at Gwen, who is staring back at her rather impatiently. “What?” she asks, defensively. “You’re not allowed out,” she tells the cat, side-stepping around the cat to get to the door. She opens it in increments before sliding out successfully, Gwen stuck in the bathroom behind the door. She can hear the meows, a little shrill, and holds a hand to her forehead, wondering why this is happening to her. She _hates_ cats.

The doorbell rings a few minutes later, as Clarke is just adding milk to the coffee in her pug mug. The mug, a prank gift from her dad that backfired because Clarke _loves_ the pug mug, is in her hand as she opens the door, gesturing for him to come in from the cold and closes the door.

“She’s in there,” she says, pointing at the bathroom door, visible from the foyer. “And you’re on your own getting her.”

“Thanks,” the guy mutters, putting down a pet carrier and shedding his winter layers. First goes the hat, then he peels off his gloves, unwinds a heavy duty scarf, and then dumps his winter coat on the floor, the rest following them. Clarke stares at the pile a moment, a little bothered by how he doesn’t even bother to be neat. At least it’s not snowing right now so the items aren’t going to create a little pool of water— the boots, on the other hand, have snow caked on the bottom. A perk of living in Duluth, she supposes.

He’s stepping out of his boot now and Clarke looks at him a little harder before saying, in surprise, “You’re Octavia’s brother— Bell something or other. How is she?” She hears rustling from upstairs from Heidi; she was upstairs sleeping on her bed and it’ll take her a few moments to get the door open and get to the foyer.

The look he gives her is not friendly, bent over and trying to tug the boot off, but Clarke doesn’t care. He looks like her, a little— dark hair, natural tan skin, freckles dotting the planes of his cheeks. His hair is curly where her’s is straight, and his face is longer, angular; Octavia never quite lost her baby fat.

“It’s Bellamy,” he growls, “and I’m just here for the cat.”

Clarke shrugs, taking a sip from her pug mug. “Go ahead, please, take her off my hands.”

The boots are off now, and he strides to the bathroom with the carrier in wooly socks similar to the pair she’s currently wearing. She glances down at hers, and makes to follow Bellamy when she hears the scratch of claws that indicates Heidi’s arrival. “Hey sweetheart,” she coos when her Brittany dog skids to her, snuffles through Bellamy’s winter things, before going after the man himself. He’s in the bathroom, holding Gwen like a porcelain figurine, then tenderly ushers the cat into the carrier.

Heidi disrupts the scene, barking and sniffing at the carrier, but mostly concentrates her sniffing around Bellamy. At first Clarke thinks it’s kind of a funny scene, but then she sees the fear in Bellamy’s eyes and she imagines what Gwen is feeling, and she whistles, says, “Heidi, girl, heel.” Heidi gives her a long-suffering look, eyes a little droopy, but trots back to her. “Good girl,” she whispers, rubbing her head affectionately, crouching to rub the sides of her faces as she coos.

Bellamy seems to get Gwen in his carrier safely and returns with a stiff walk; Clarke smoothly stands up. “Thanks,” he mutters, as he pulls his boots on with greater ease then he’d taken them off.

“It was no problem, really, I found her sitting on my porch in the snow. She’s wet because I gave her a warm bath.”

He shrugs the information off, picking his things up and putting them on methodically. He pulls the coat on first, places the hat on his head, winds the scarf around his neck, buttons the coat up over the scarf and then, finally, sharply pulls the gloves on, pulling at the bottom almost aggressively. Once all dressed, he stares at her, squints a little. Uncomforted, Clarke takes another sip from her pug mug, Heidi making a small whining sound from the floor, crosses an arm across her abdomen. She knows she’s a mess, but it’s Saturday morning. She can wear an old sweatshirt with flannel PJ bottoms if she wants to; she doesn’t have to brush her hair either. She just woke up, really, and thankfully she can start to feel the heat working.

“Be more careful, okay?” She finally says, after he’s stared at her for too long.

He jerks back, surprised, “Yeah, of course, Gwen is a bit new, so she’s probably not quite used to the house yet. Thanks, I owe you a big one.”

She shrugs it off. “I’m not heartless,” she mutters to herself, as he opens the door and steps out. Heidi follows her, a loyal darling. When he leaves, she closes the door after him and gets Heidi a treat, because she deserves the whole world— or maybe it’s that the world doesn’t deserve her, white and brown spotted, sweet and the best bed companion.

 

 

Her cell rings when she’s at work the next Thursday and, reaching across the desk to grab a pen, she answers, “Hello, Clarke speaking.”

“Hey, Bellamy, I’m wondering if you’ve seen Gwen around your place?”

“Um,” she says, thinking, as she scribbles down a note for a case she’s working on, crosses a word out, replaces it with another. “I’ve not seen her, no. Why?”

There’s a short sigh, the distressed kind, and then, “No reason, bye.”

He hangs up; she stares at her phone screen for a moment before thinking, you know what, screw it, and adds the number to her contacts under Bellamy Blake. She finds a picture of a gray cat online and makes it his picture.

 

 

She pulls into her garage that night, exhausted, puts her briefcase down by the garage door, and is grabbing a beer from the fridge when she hears the meowing. Flicking on the porch light, she peers outside and sees that it is, indeed, the missing Gwen. Sighing, she grabs another tea towel and pulls Gwen in for the same routine as before.

Leaving Gwen behind again, she dials Bellamy. He sounds tired himself, and Clarke is suspicious that he’s spent the day searching for this cat.

“She’s here,” she says, scratching behind Heidi’s ears. “You were right.”

There’s another sigh, a deep, relieved one. “I’ll be there soon,” he mutters.

“Sure, don’t worry about it,” she says. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to keep her in a bathroom,” he snaps, seemingly having predicted her moves.

“It keeps her in one place, doesn’t it? Less searching or whatever.”

“Cats come when called,” he replies. She hears him putting on his winter gear.

“Whatever,” she says, not really caring, hanging up. Gwen really has terribly pitiful meows, though, and they are pulling at her heartstrings. She doesn’t like cats, bad accidents when younger, an allergy that seems to have lessened as she grew older, but still memorably bad— she always seemed to have a cold when visiting Grandmama Jackie, but later realized it was the cat that was bothering her. Grandmama Jackie loved that cat though, and she just suffered through it, taking ibuprofen every time she visited.

“Do you promise to be good,” she sighs, leaning her head against the door. Gwen is a cat, though, there’s no way she understands her; Clarke erects the barriers for containing Heidi when she has nice company, like her parents, or coworkers, puts Heidi behind them, and lets Gwen out.

For being so insistent about getting out, Gwen is surprisingly cautious, sniffing at the floor, frame of the door, before slowly leaving the bathroom. She wanders around the walls, sniffing at pretty much everything, and Clarke watches in bemusement, standing there in her work clothes, scarf still wound around her neck. The doorbell rings and Clarke opens it, keeping an eye on Gwen as she does so.

“I’ll be quick,” Bellamy says, not even looking at her and not bothering to take his boots off. It was snowing earlier, a light one, and there’s a fine dusting across his shoulders and the top of his head; he’s gloveless and hatless today and his hair is curlier than the other day.

“No snowy boots,” she asserts. “And he’s in here, not the bathroom.” He glances at her, eyebrows up, and she crosses her arms in irritation. “The meowing was annoying.”

He shrugs it off. “I really owe you one,” he says, moving back to the doorway, setting the carrier down. It’s a different one from before, bigger. Clarke wonders what happened to the smaller one and exactly how many cats Bellamy has. He crouches and whistles low, snaps, and murmurs, “Gwen, here kitty-cat.”

The cat literally perks up; Clarke watches with wide eyes as the cat prances to Bellamy, butting the top of his head against Bellamy’s palm. “Good kitty,” he murmurs, picking Gwen up and placing her in the carrier. She voices no complaint as Bellamy does so, and Clarke thinks she even hears her purring as Bellamy arranges some blankets around her.

“You really love that cat,” Clarke states, frowning a little.

“Don’t you love your dog?” Bellamy shoots back at her, standing up.

“Well, yeah,” Clarke replies, glancing at the barrier into the living room, where Heidi is standing and staring mournfully at her. “But she’s a dog.”

“Cat, dog, doesn’t make a difference,” Bellamy dismisses.

Clarke snorts. “Yeah, right. You’re terrified of dogs.”

“And you hate cats. We’ll call it even,” Bellamy says, not glancing at her as he locks the carrier and stands up. “I owe you another one.” He’s looking at her now, and seems surprised to see her in something other than pajamas. “You haven’t changed,” he states.

“I just got home from work,” Clarke defends, not sure why she’s defensive— it just felt like a statement to be defensive too.

“And you helped Gwen immediately?”

“Of course I did,” she snaps. “It’s an animal stuck outside in the freezing cold, surrounded by snow higher than— of _course_ I was going to help. Anyways, I was going to look around because you called today.”

“That’s—” He stops, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Thanks. It means the world to me, this time and the previous time.”

She shrugs it off, going to the door and pulling it open. “It was no problem,” she says, the door open a clear indication for him to get out.

He dips his head, picks up the carrier, and goes out the door.

 

 

“Your damn cat is here again,” Clarke hisses.

It is early, again a Saturday morning, just before seven-thirty, and it snowed all night; there is at least a foot of snow on her porch, and she had shoveled it last night before going to bed to make it easier later. And there that cat is, huddled miserably on the corner of her porch. Phone in her pocket, earbuds in place for an emergency work call, she called Bellamy as she handled Gwen, the poor thing a tree in a hurricane. She still doesn’t like cats, but this has got to be a masochistic type of cat and she feels terribly for it.

Clarke feels terribly for Gwen, but she’s got shit to do. Her call is scheduled to start in five minutes and she’s not ready; her paper notes are spread across her kitchen table, her laptop is in the living room, and she hasn’t had a bite to eat yet.

“You need to get your ass here as soon as you can,” she continues, “and pick up your cat. I’ll be busy, door’s unlocked, just pick up the damn cat.” She presses the remote on her ear buds, ending the voicemail because Bellamy didn’t pick up, and dumps the cat in the tub, running the hot water. She’s agitated, too much on her mind, totally unprepared for this. She keeps on showing up at her place and she cannot figure out why.

While the cat shivers in the tub, she runs to the kitchen table to gather her papers, grabbing a hand towel to wipe her hands down before relocating her papers to the living room, next to her computer. Heidi is napping on the couch, where Clarke is soon to sit. She usually keeps Clarke company during these work calls, providing cuddles when things get tense or stressful; usually it’s a combination of the two.

She returns to the bathroom and towels the cat off best she can and sets it loose in the house, barring herself and Heidi in the living room. Trying to be efficient and quick, Clarke flicks through the papers, organizing them, turning her computer on, plugging it in— she has barely finished the minimum of preparation before she receives the call from her boss and client.

Heidi gets restless fairly easily, shifting around the couch, snuffling underneath her legs, pawing at her papers, staring out over the barrier, possibly at Gwen, but is otherwise excellent company for the next seventy-six minutes. Her client thanks her and her boss and leaves the conversation; her boss says, “good work Griffin” before hanging up. She falls backwards, ready to fall back asleep, even with her mind buzzing, and does.

Clarke wakes up sometime later, computer humming in front of her, earbuds in place, and Heidi howling lowly and pawing at the barrier. Bellamy is there, staring unsteadily at Heidi. “Find your cat?” She asks, muzzily, pulling the earbuds out and standing up, stretching.

Bellamy is now staring at her; she remembers she threw on her favorite sweats from law school, low on her hips, edge of her underwear showing, her t-shirt riding high on her belly. She pulls it down and snaps for Heidi.

Making a low whine, Heidi goes back to her and Clarke rewards her with a good scratch behind the ears. “Good girl,” she mumbles, going to the barrier. “Well?” She asks, running a hand through her tangled hair. “She hasn’t broken anything, has he?”

Bellamy gestures vaguely, eyes going between her and Heidi. “I can’t find her.”

“Can’t you just work your cat magic or something?” Clarke complains, undoing the barrier and moving past him.

“Why were you asleep?” he asks.

“I had a work call and fell asleep afterwards,” she responds blandly, Heidi trotting after her like the treasure she is. She passes Bellamy’s pile of things in the foyer as she goes to the stairs. “He’s probably up here,” she calls. “Have you looked?”

“No, it’s— it’s your private space,” he says, trailing after her in a similar manner as Heidi. She smiles a little at that.

“It’s fine,” she says, waving a hand, climbing the stairs. “We’re something like friends, right?” It’s not like her house is chock full of personal belongings anyways; a lot of that stuff is still in Minneapolis, waiting for her to drive to her parents to pick it all up. “Besides, I know your sister.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything and they alight the second floor landing in silence. “Go ahead and check up here,” she says, going to her bedroom. “I’m going to change.” It feels weird, to have Bellamy going through her house looking for his cat, but it doesn’t some _wrong_ , which only makes it more weird. “No peeking,” she calls from behind the door, opening her drawers and taking out clothes for the day.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she hears, muffled by the door, and hears him going through the guest bedroom. She strips the t-shirt and sweats and pulls on her jeans, a bra and one of her favorite sweaters. It’s wool, so very warm, and has the best dog print.

Opening the door, she pauses, before going back and checking nooks and crannies in her room, finally searching under the bed, where Heidi is sniffing at. Gwen is in a corner, curled up in a sweatshirt Clarke had forgotten about. She’s cute like that, sleeping, no longer the shivering mess this morning. It had been worse than the first time, the mewls quieter and more pitiful. It had been a near miracle she had even heard her, but it’d somewhat become a habit to double check her porch for missing cats.

“She’s sleeping under my bed,” she calls, going to the hallway, Bellamy appearing from the guest room. He blinks.

“You changed.”

“Your observational skills astound me,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Now get your cat, I need coffee.”

“Hey,” Bellamy says, running a hand through his hair as he approaches her. He’s tall, much taller than Octavia, who is her height, her size, a fountain of energy. Bellamy, in comparison, is the calm lake, all smooth waters, still waters run deep.

“Yeah?” she asks, looking up at him.

He swallows, looking at the ground then up, but his expression changes and sticks at her chest. Self-conscious, she frowns and half-raises a hand to her chest. “That’s a dog sweater,” he states.

“No shit Sherlock,” she mutters, the moment, or whatever that was, gone. “Get your cat and get out, please,” she continues, moving into her bedroom, kicking her earlier clothes into a corner. Clarke’s room isn’t necessarily neat, her bed unmade, master bath door ajar and showing the messy counter full of make-up and hair product, but she acts as though it doesn’t matter as she crouches by the bed near where Gwen is. “Please take her.”

“Want to get coffee with me?”

She glances up at him; he seems determined, crouching down in front of her, eyes serious and intent on her. “Sure,” she replies, “but please, get your cat first? I’m kind of allergic.”

 

 

They meet at a local brunch place of Bellamy’s choice twenty minutes later; Bellamy, in all his winter gear, arrives after her and she watches with amusement as he sheds his clothes and wonders if he’s going to dump it somewhere, like he does at her place. He doesn’t, instead precariously festooning his chair with them.

“So I’m curious about something,” she says, taking a sip of the water that had been provided when she first sat down. “Why does Gwen show up at my house?”

He picks up the menu, flipping through it; Clarke has already done so and made a decision. “Hell if I know,” he murmurs, flipping it over and frowning slightly. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning her body to make a gesture to the waitress who had brought the water.

“What can I get you two?” she asks, preparing a notepad of paper, pen hovering above.

“I’d like the eggs benedict, and could I also get a latte?”

“Yes,” the waitress says, dragging the ‘s’ out, and then turns to Bellamy. “And you?”

“The strawberry waffles, but hold the whipped cream. What sort of tea do you have?”

“We have English Breakfast, Earl Grey, and some herbal teas.”

Bellamy thinks for a moment, says, “Some English Breakfast please.”

“Tea?” Clarke asks once the waitress walked away, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “I acquired the taste via Octavia.”

“Oh, she’s a big tea drinker then?”

Bellamy leans back in his chair, slouches a bit. “She was, but quit and threw all her tea away in a fit after realizing that some weird tea diet she was doing wasn’t working.”

Clarke snorts. “Sounds like Octavia. She’s well?”

“Yeah, she’s about to start applying to schools for a PhD actually.”

Clarke makes the appropriate impressed sounds. “I don’t remember her being intellectually leaning, you know. She was always flitting from club to club, drama to orchestra, you know?”

Bellamy shrugs; at that moment their waitress brings their drinks, giving them each a smile as she sets them down. “Here’s your latte, and your tea,” she says, standing straight with a smile that looks real, but Clarke’s been a waitress before. Not all smiles are real.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling back, already reaching for the cup. She cups it in her hands first, fingers not that chilled, but enjoying the warm porcelain nonetheless. Bellamy starts preparing his tea, putting the tea bag in the mug and pouring the water over that. He stirs it a bit, Clarke blowing slightly on her latte as she watches. She eventually takes a sip, the width of the cup surprising her into sloshing some of the foam onto her upper lip and above, aka a foam mustache; Bellamy glances up and sees it before she can wipe it off and grins.

“An appealing look for sure.”

“Screw you,” Clarke mutters, grabbing a napkin and roughly wiping the foam off. She’s accustomed to the cup now, she hopes, so there won’t be a repeat experience. “You never really answered my question before,” she says, taking a careful sip. “About your cat.”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy insists, picking up his own mug. His hand makes it look small, index and middle finger curled through the handle, width of his thumb the distance from the handle to the rim. “Honestly. I haven’t had her for that long. None of my other cats did anything like this.”

“Your other cats?” Clarke asks, eyebrow raised. “How many do you have?”

“Four,” Bellamy responds, this mulish look on his face as he takes a sip of his teeth.

“Why four?” Clarke can’t help but ask. It’s a lot, for a guy; he’s a literal cat gentleman.

“It just… happened,” he says with a disgruntled expression. “I volunteer at the local humane society, and they just called to me.”

“That’s adorable,” Clarke breathes as Bellamy takes a sip of his tea. He looks uncomfortable with the praise.

“It’s only what they deserve. I wish I could take in more, but I can’t right now.”

Clarke takes a sip of her latte and their food arrives; she thanks the waitress and smiles at her and gets a smile in return. Her eggs benedict looks perfect and she cuts the egg in half almost immediately, like a child. The yolk spills out and she starts tucking in, glancing up to see Bellamy do the same to his waffles. While strawberries are usually sliced, the strawberries on his waffles have been diced and sprinkled liberally across. There’s a small, empty plastic container that has syrup lining the edge of part of it, so Clarke figures he must have already spread it across.

Her first bite is delicious; it’s salty, with that yolk taste Clarke grew to love in law school. The bread adds a crunch and it’s just— this is probably one of the best mornings Clarke has had in a while, and she’s not entirely sure why.

“This is really good,” Bellamy says, mouth partially full, a look of bliss on his face.

“I’ve never been here before,” Clarke admits, taking a sip of water to cleanse her palate. “But I’ll become a regular soon enough.”

“I don’t come all that often,” Bellamy admits. “Usually with family or guests.”

“And where do I fall?” Clarke teases, cutting a bite off with her fork and eating it.

Bellamy chokes, on what, Clarke doesn’t know. She reaches across in concern, but he waves her hand off, thumping his chest with his own fist. “I’m fine,” he croaks. He drains most of his water glass and puts it down a little too hard. “I— you— it depends on you, I guess.”

“In what way?” she asks, mopping some yolk up with the bread and popping it into her mouth.

“Well, it depends on if you’d like this to be a date.”

Clarke stares at him. “A date.”

He shrugs, picks up his tea mug, but doesn’t take a sip. “Yeah. A date.”

“This isn’t thanks?”

“It is if you want it to be. It’s up to you.”

“You want to date me,” Clarke clarifies. “Yes, no?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and finally takes a sip of his tea. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. “Oh.”

“And?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Clarke says, “is that okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I have ridiculous hours. I also don’t like cats.”

Bellamy smiles; she’s positive that this is the first time that she’s seen him smile. It transforms his face and she sees the family resemblance much more clearly when he smiles. They have the same cheekbones and a mobile mouth that suits smiling.

“We’ll acclimate you to them.”

“You’ll have to get used to Heidi then,” Clarke warns. “Package deal.”

He shrugs; that tells Clarke just how serious Bellamy is. She doesn’t know where, exactly, this attraction to him came from, or why he wants to date her, but dating is a learning process, right? Her last relationship was post law school and ended because he couldn’t take his girlfriend having a higher-powered career than him. She felt better off without his sexism and, frankly, stupidity; they were together all through law school after all. What did he think she was going to do after expensive law school, crunch numbers like him?

“No problem.”

The eggs benedict that morning are the best she has ever had.

 

 

Three weeks later, Gwen is pawing at her door. She’s gotten bold, Clarke thinks as she opens her door and she prances in. Clarke makes sure to thoroughly shovel her porch when there’s snow as a precaution, and she’s been grateful for having done since she and Bellamy started dating. This is the sixth time Gwen has shown up, and it’s stopped feeling like a party trick and more like she needs to invest in some cat toys and chow. She texts Bellamy about his cat as she corrals Heidi into the living room; she discovered quickly that Heidi is in love with Gwen and Gwen is virulently not into Heidi.

She has no early work call this morning, thank god, and makes a granola and yoghurt breakfast as her coffee percolates. For Bellamy, she sets water boiling and sets a mug out. Twenty minutes later her doorbell rings and she answers it with her pug mug of coffee in hand. “Hey,” she says, smiling and lets Bellamy in. Before he takes his hat off, or his scarf, or boots, anything, he kisses her and she kisses him back.

“Hi,” he murmurs, and then presses a last butterfly kiss before unwinding his winter layers. “I dug up some records from the Humane Society the other day.”

“Oh?” Clarke asks, watching him hang his things on the coat rack she bought recently. “And?”

“Apparently Gwen’s previous owner lived here.”

Clarke frowns. “Oh. I have water boiling for you if you want some.”

Bellamy smiles, stepping closer and arms circling her waist; Clarke carefully situates her mug so it doesn’t spill. He’s not always this affectionate, and she savors it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says, reaching up to peck him on the cheek. “But this Gwen thing needs to get resolved. She keeps on coming back here, and we now know why.”

Bellamy leans forward, forehead pressing against hers and smiles devilishly. “I have an idea.”

Clarke frowns; that smile means nothing good. “Well?”

“How about you adopt Gwen?”

“Me?” Clarke scoffs, stepping away. “I’m terrible at pets.”

“You have Heidi.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and goes back to her kitchen. “Okay, fine, I’m terrible at cats. Dogs I get. I also hardly give Heidi the attention she deserves, don’t I?” She coos, standing now at the barrier. Heidi barks at her, tongue out. She sighs and scratches the top of her head.

“Think about it?” Bellamy asks, opening the tea cupboard and pulling out a box he had brought over. She then hears paper ripping and him pouring the water into his mug.

“I will,” she sighs. “I’m just worried that I wouldn’t be able to care for her properly.”

“I know,” Bellamy says. “I worry all the time, and I have four.”

Clarke should really be spending her time preparing further for a case that’s coming up, but instead she spends the day with Bellamy, cuddling on the couch while watching Netflix and Hulu, Heidi curled up on one side and Gwen on a faraway armchair, continuously eyeing Heidi.

He leaves mid-afternoon, citing work as an excuse, and Clarke helps him wind the scarf around his neck, kissing him before he goes. She cooks a simple pasta for dinner, with tomatoes and cheese, a longing for summer type of pasta. Heidi is sweet and by her side, brown and white fur always so easy on the eyes.

 _I’ll take her in_ , Clarke texts Bellamy that night. _Which means you need to get better accustomed to dogs._

He texts back: _ok :)_

 

 

They start getting lunch during their lunch breaks, Clarke in her business suit and Bellamy in slacks. Deluth isn’t a huge city, decently big, and, despite the cold, they walk around as much as they can. They find nooks and crannies they hadn’t been aware of and they talk more and more. Bellamy tells stories about Octavia growing up, about always wanting to be a vet but not having the mind for it, and Clarke tells Bellamy all about her parents and all about the big Tibetan Mastiff her family had when she was a child.

Bellamy doesn’t care that her job pays more, that she’s busy almost all the time, and seems happy with the time they get to spend together. Sometimes she snaps at him, and he yells back, and it escalates; no relationship is perfect, after all. Her parents are only still happily married because they’ve learned the routine of fighting and making up.

Sometimes Clarke just doesn’t know what to do with Gwen and that frustrates Bellamy, but the small, grey cat never grows on Clarke the same way any dog they run into on the street does. Bellamy’s the same with Heidi; it’s more tolerance than any deep-seated love. That’s okay, though. They do it for each other.

 

 

Bellamy moves into her house in the spring, citing that this is the easiest way to see her. Heidi is running around the house, excited by all the new things, and his cats surreptitiously check the house and yard out. The others are named: Arthur, Merlin and Shalott. Clarke found out that Bellamy’s a huge Arthurian legend nerd, but then again, she was secretly a huge classics nerd, with four different translations of _The Iliad_ and _The Odyssey_ as well as copies of Cicero and Pericles and more.

The grass is vividly green; flowers from the previous owner bloom riotously, red, pink, purple and all over the yard.

 


End file.
